Social Crimes

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Social Crimes Page 27

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock


  Oh boy, this babe was something.

  “How about Oliva?”

  “Oliva? That’s a new one. But hey, whatever turns you on.”

  Our drinks arrived. I was contemplating how best to approach this wondrous being with my scheme.

  “I’m just assuming you’re a professional?”

  “A professional what?”

  “Uh, working girl. You know . . .”

  “I’m a businesswoman,” she said, pulling a cigarette from her purse, which she lit in one smooth, continuous motion with the flame of a gold lighter.

  “May I ask where you’re from?” I said.

  “Look, sugar,” she said, exhaling a steady plume of smoke. “I didn’t come here to play twenty questions. Whaddya want?”

  “Actually, what I want is an actress.”

  “What happened to central casting?”

  “Can you do a French accent?”

  She preened. “I can do anything—ena-sing—your heart desires, chéri. French—Frawnch—Churman, Espanyol, Eetalyano.”

  I just marveled. Each of her accents was flawless.

  “Okay, look,” I said, “the deal is this: I’m playing a little joke on a friend of mine, and what I need you to do is to impersonate her for an hour or so in front of some lawyers.”

  “No group sex,” she said.

  “It’s nothing like that. This doesn’t involve sex. I just need you to dress up as this friend of mine and go to a lawyer’s office and sign a will.”

  “Whose will?”

  “Hers.”

  Our eyes locked for a split second. I looked away and took a sip of my drink to calm my nerves.

  “She’s this Oliva person?”

  “No. That’s just a little private joke.”

  “You’re full of jokes, aren’t you?”

  I laughed uncomfortably. “One more thing. You’re not actually going to sign the will yourself.”

  “I’m not?”

  “No. You’re going to fake an injury so that one of the lawyers in the office will have to sign the will for you.”

  She leaned back in her chair, absently rotating the olive in her glass with her finger. I noticed her long red nails.

  “Tell me something,” she said, after a time. “Do the lawyers know this is a joke?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean it sounds like you’re asking me to commit a crime.”

  “No. Not at all—well, maybe a minor one. But it’s just a little joke. Really.”

  I knew she didn’t believe me so I was relieved when she asked the next question.

  “And what sort of compensation are we talking about here?”

  “Oh, I thought somewhere in the neighborhood of around, oh, five thousand dollars?”

  “I’m not wild about that neighborhood, sugar.”

  “Okay. What neighborhood do you like?”

  She hesitated for what seemed like an interminable moment.

  “I’ll do it for ten.”

  I gave an inward sigh of relief.

  “That sounds reasonable,” I said, trying to be cool. “We’ll need a couple of practice sessions first. I mean, you understand you really have to be this person.”

  “That’s my specialty, sugar—being whoever you want.” She popped the olive into her mouth and grinned.

  Much as I loathed doing it, I had to borrow the money from Betty. She’d always told me that if I needed money, all I had to do was tell her. She was true to her word. She lent me ten thousand dollars, no questions asked. I said that if certain things worked out, I’d pay her back with interest. She said she never loaned money expecting to get paid back and she considered this our secret. She gave me the full amount of cash.

  One week later, Oliva came to my apartment where I gave her a five-thousand-dollar down payment and showed her pictures of Monique from some recent newspaper and magazine clippings. Oliva acted as if she had never heard of Monique or anyone else in New York Society, for that matter—including me. I found this immensely refreshing, if she was telling the truth, which I doubted.

  I dressed her up in one of my old couture suits, because presentable as Oliva’s own clothes were, they weren’t custom-made. Not that those lackluster lawyers would ever be able to tell the difference. But I was a perfectionist, in art, in clothes, and now, hopefully, in crime.

  Oliva and I agreed she would have to darken the color of her hair and cut it like Monique’s. She practiced her French accent and copied Monique’s makeup. She was a quick study. She never talked about herself, nor did she ask me any personal questions. I appreciated her professionalism but I soon began to grasp the fact that I was dealing with a very strange person.

  After we’d worked together for a time, Oliva informed me she had to go away on a business trip for a few days. I believed that like I believed most billionaires’ second wives aren’t in it for the money.

  “Where can I get in touch with you?” I asked, nervous I’d never see her again.

  She gave me her pager number, but told me not to use it unless it was an emergency. She promised to call me the minute she returned.

  By now, I’d seen enough crime shows to know that the first thing the police did when they suspected someone of something was to check their LUDS (Local Usage Details), a list of all the calls made to and from that person’s home phone number.

  “Let’s not ever communicate by phone,” I told her, thinking of the future. “Where do you live?”

  “I have no fixed address,” she said.

  I was vaguely aware that people like Oliva existed—people who lived on the fringes of society, attaching themselves to big sharks in big cities like remora fish, cleaning them out, then moving on. Coming face to face with one was chilling. Cold, self-contained, and focused on the job at hand, Oliva was a sexy sociopath. She reminded me of Monique in more ways than one. I was intrigued by her, and wary at the same time.

  I fixed a date and time for Oliva to come back to my apartment. I was worried about the star of my show leaving even for a short interval. Plus, I’d given her a lot of money. For the moment, however, I had no choice but to trust her. My work was cut out for me. The hour had come for me to write Monique’s will.

  Chapter 29

  I bought a secondhand typewriter from a thrift shop on Third Avenue. I worked on the will every night, polishing it to make the tone just right. This was the moment to use the information I had uncovered in Paris—information that only I, Monique, and presumably Nate Nathaniel knew about Monique. As an extra precaution, I used gloves when I handled the paper so I wouldn’t leave any fingerprints. The final version read thus:

  I, Monique de Passy, currently residing at 815 Fifth Avenue in New York City, do hereby revoke all other Wills and codicils and declare this to be my last Will and Testament . . . First I must make this confession: I obtained my fortune under false pretenses. I coerced Lucius Slater into leaving me over half his estate to the detriment of his loyal wife by persuading him that I was pregnant, when, in fact, I cannot have children. I now wish to make amends for the wrong I have done her.

  I, therefore, bequeath my entire estate to my dear, long-suffering friend, Josephine Slater, who resides at 212 East 74th Street in New York City.

  Jo, if you are present at the reading of this will, I wish you to know how profoundly sorry I am for all the terrible things I have done to you. The world sees a different Monique de Passy from the one you have seen. Only you know how much I am suffering, what torment I am in. But what else can a person do but smile for the cameras?

  I appoint Nathaniel P. Nathaniel, Esq., the executor of my Will. Though I suspect that Mr. Nathaniel will not approve of the course I have taken regarding the disposition of my property, I trust him to see that my wishes are carried out in full. However, should he fail to qualify or act as executor, Jo Slater shall serve as executor in his place.

  I particularly liked the phrase “long-suffering friend,” which referred so very accurately to me. B
ut the stroke of genius, in my view, was in making noxious Nate Nathaniel the executor and therefore the beneficiary of a lucrative executor’s fee. That way Nathaniel would have a lot to gain if he kept his mouth shut. And a lot to lose if he didn’t.

  The next obstacle was Monique herself. Reestablishing communication with the now popular Countess was repellent to me, but necessary for two reasons: The first was that if Monique and I were seen acting friendly toward each other in public before her untimely demise, the will might not come as a complete shock to people.

  The second, far more important reason, had to do with logistics. There was bound to be an inquiry regarding the will, and therefore it was vital that Monique not be seen by anyone during the time her impersonator was in the lawyer’s office signing the fake will. To make absolutely certain of Monique’s whereabouts during that critical couple of hours, I needed to be alone with her myself.

  I sat in my living room, staring at the telephone, thinking how best to approach Monique. I wanted to rehearse what I was going to say out loud, but the words wouldn’t come. The idea of being civil to the bitch turned my throat to sandpaper. A couple of straight vodkas loosened me up. I dialed Monique’s number.

  “Countess de Passy’s residence,” said a dour English voice on the other end of the line. I assumed it was the butler.

  “May I speak with Countess de Passy, please?”

  “I’ll pass you through to her secretary, madam,” the butler said.

  I sipped my vodka and composed myself, waiting for the secretary to pick up.

  Another English person came on the line, a woman with a nauseatingly chirpy accent: “Hello, Anthea Hayes speaking. May I be of assistance?”

  I wondered if staffing her house with Brits was Monique’s small revenge for Waterloo.

  “I’d like to speak with Countess de Passy, please.”

  “May I ask—ausque—who’s calling?”

  “Jo Slater.”

  “One moment please, Mrs. Slater.”

  She put me on hold. A long minute passed. I grew nervous thinking Monique might refuse to speak to me. At last, I heard the familiar voice.

  “Hello, Jo, how are you?” Monique said in a somber tone. “It’s been a long time.”

  “All right. How are you?”

  “Very well, thank you.”

  We were as tentative as two old lovers who had had a bad breakup.

  “I was wondering if we could have a drink. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

  “What?”

  “Do you still want the necklace?” I had no time to beat around the bush.

  “Yes. Do you have it?”

  “I do. And I need the money. So if you’re interested . . . ?”

  “I’m not going to pay you a million dollars,” she said.

  “I understand. I’m asking two hundred and fifty thousand, which was the high end of the auction estimate, as you no doubt recall. I think that’s fair, don’t you?”

  “More than fair. In fact, a bit foolish. You could get a higher price.”

  “Look, Monique, I’ll level with you. I feel terrible about everything and, frankly, it’s all water under the bridge now. It doesn’t much matter what happens anymore.”

  “Please don’t say that, Jo. It’s too sad.”

  “I didn’t want to tell you this on the phone, but . . . I’m dying.”

  Was it shock or concern that made her gasp?

  “My God, Jo, no.”

  “Yes . . . I don’t want to go into it, but the doctors say I’ll be lucky to last out the year. All this hatred and stress have corroded my insides, you see.”

  There was a brief silence.

  “I’m sorry, Jo. Truly, I am.”

  I thought I detected a note of genuine concern in her voice. Well, why not? After all, if I died, who would she have to torment? We’d fallen into a kind of socialite Stockholm syndrome where torturer and victim lived in symbiosis. She would miss me. Just as I would miss her.

  “I’ll level with you, Monique. Jerry Medina wants the necklace. But we both know he’ll just turn around and sell it for double. Probably to you. And anyway, it’s my last grand gesture. If I didn’t have all these medical bills, I’d give it to you as a present.”

  “Where can I get in touch with you?”

  “I work during the day and they don’t like me taking personal calls. But you can always reach me at home in the evening.”

  I gave her my home telephone number.

  “I’ll call you tonight. We’ll make arrangements,” she said.

  “Oh, and Monique,” I added as a pretended afterthought, “please don’t tell anyone about my being ill. I don’t want people to know. I can’t face another shred of pity.”

  “Don’t worry, Jo. All your secrets are safe with me,” Monique said pointedly, then hung up.

  That night, she called back. I purposely didn’t answer the phone. I let the machine pick up.

  “Allo, Jo. It’s Monique. Are you there? Have you gone out? Please call me so we can arrange the details. A bientôt.”

  I didn’t call back. I let her call again, and again, and again. I think she regretted not paying the million dollars for it at auction because she seemed to be salivating for my signature piece. And why not? It was the final spoil in the complete conquest of my life.

  I saved all her messages on my answering machine. I wanted a record of her voice.

  I finally called her back, suggesting we meet for lunch at Pug’s, where we were bound to run into several people from the old crowd. I set a tentative date that I hoped would give me enough time to make all the arrangements.

  “I’ll bring the necklace. You bring the check,” I told her.

  “Shall I send my driver for you?” Monique asked.

  I realized I’d neglected to factor in this crucial detail. I’d been out of the fast lane too long. Of course, Monique had a driver. She was rich. And the driver would be the one person who would know where she was at all times.

  “How sweet of you,” I said, betraying no sign of concern. “Why don’t you send him to pick me up at work at around twelve. Then we can swing by and pick you up at home or wherever you’re going to be. That way you won’t have to drive all the way downtown.”

  Monique agreed this was a good idea. I gave her the address of the showroom.

  “Very good. I will send Caspar for you at noon two weeks from tomorrow,” Monique reiterated.

  I felt a swift pang. “Caspar is working for you?”

  “He said he missed his old job.”

  I silently cursed that traitor schnauzer, but said smoothly, “It’ll be nice to see him again. Just like old times.”

  I hung up, wondering how to get around this little glitch.

  When I began to think it through, however, I realized having her send Caspar, as opposed to some chauffeur I didn’t know, was probably a good thing. Caspar had once worked for me. I knew just how to deal with him.

  The next hurdle was to make an appointment with a lawyer. I’d given a great deal of thought to this. I had to be very careful whom I chose to oversee the execution of this will. I first thought of Jeffrey Banks, the lawyer I’d contacted on the telephone about the signature. He sounded competent enough, but if ever there were a question about the will, Banks was an unknown quantity. I had to be sure that whoever supervised the signing of this document was thorough, a worthy adversary for Nate Nathaniel, who was bound to smell a rat.

  I decided to go for broke and use Patricia McCluskey, the lawyer Nate himself had recommended to me. And indeed, when I’d met her, in what seemed like a lifetime ago, she had lived up to her reputation. I remembered there was something rather sympathetic about her. She liked and defended women. I harked back to that comment she’d made the day I went to see her in Sagaponack about Lucius’s will. When I remarked she was playing Don Giovanni, she’d said, “I play it to remind myself what shits men are,” or words to that effect. I don’t think she much cared for Na
te Nathaniel either—Nate the Enforcer, as she called him. But then, who did?

  The tricky part was in getting McCluskey to meet with Oliva disguised as Monique without suspecting the real purpose of the visit. The only way to do this was to make a very favorable impression over the telephone. I knew exactly what tone to take, exactly what had to be said. I could imitate a rather good French accent myself, so I made the call.

  I went to the Carlyle Hotel to use the phone there. I didn’t want a record of this call coming from my apartment. I sat in the little booth and called Patricia McCluskey’s law office, posing as the Countess de Passy. McCluskey took the call right away.

  “Patricia McClusky,” she said in that gruff, husky voice I remembered so well.

  “Ah, Miss McClusky,” I said. “Thank—zank—you so much for taking my call. I am a friend of Nate Nathaniel and Nate has always spoken so highly of you that—zat—I thought I could call you for some advice.”

  “Did Nate refer you to me?” she asked.

  “No, non . . . On the—zuh—contrary . . . I wonder, I must ask you . . . Is it—eet—possible that we could keep our conversation completely private? Especially from Nate. You will understand.”

  “It is.”

  “Nate and I have just—jus—become engaged and I would like to come in and speak with—wiz—you about prenuptial agreements in this country.”

  “I’d be delighted, Countess. When would you like to come in?”

  “I think I am going away soon . . . Shall we say two weeks from today?”

  “Morning? Afternoon?”

  “Afternoon is a bit better for me.”

  “Three o’clock?”

  “Perhaps two-thirty?” I offered.

  “Two-thirty on the afternoon of the fifth. You have the address?”

  “350 Madison Avenue?”

  “Fourteenth floor.”

  “Merci bien . . . Oh, pardon. Thank you so much. I look forward to meeting you.”

  “Likewise.”

  I hung up that phone with a real feeling of accomplishment.

  Oliva called me at work two days later to inform me she was back in town, ready for “the show,” as she referred to it. I took a long lunch hour so we could meet in my apartment. I stood on the landing and watched her trudge up the stairs holding on to the banister, with a stylish black nylon duffel bag slung across her shoulder. Her eyes were bloodshot. She looked like she’d had a rough few days.

 

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